Broken things
by forensicirulan
Summary: The pressure Helen is under and the way she deals with it makes her realize some things.


People have different ways of dealing with stress.

Some people try to suppress it, pretend nothing ever happened, being disposed to considering their fears a frailty. Some immediately reach for their packet of cigarettes and desperately try to escape to the open air, lighting on their precious spear of ghost-layer, hoping the smoke will chase their despair away like it does with bees. Others kill it off physically, kick and claw and hit until they burn out and don't feel the tenseness try to tear them apart.

What she does is, she breaks things. In her moments of agony, she would lock herself up in her room and let her body ravage lamps and pain and anguish and photo frames. She doesn't tell anyone because she reckons it a barbarian method, the rendition of her darker side that she would really rather keep below the surface.

Besides, it's not like those decorating objects are so irreplaceable.

This is why, when she realizes her daughter has betrayed all she was raised for, escaped with the Source Blood and will possibly break all Hell loose, her little child is now in the hands of the enemy while she is surrounded by strangers and the fleeting chill of James' ghost on her skin, what she does is run. Run, out of the study, down the halls and into her room, turning the golden key in the lock until it clicks and waits for her rage and sorrow to surface.

It really isn't long before she picks up her alarm clock and smashes it on the floor, the silver debris almost abusive against the golds and reds of the carpet. The difference is probably lost on her, lost in her blurry vision and shaky hands, a sob forming on her lips.

Gripping the headboard she tries her best to transform the grief into fury, she _would_ prefer breaking things to sobbing into a pillow. Clenching her teeth and fists, she reaches for a pillow and strikes against her dressing table, brushing its contents onto the floor and against the wall, torn necklaces and perfume bottles shattered into pieces. The smell of old facial powder and a nauseatingly rosy fragrance mix in the air around her and fill her lungs as she is panting for breath. She flops down the chair, tightening her grip on the pillow and hugging it closer to herself like she did as a child, waking from occasional nightmares. Except, those were nightmares, those weren't real, those could be shooed away. As a kid she didn't think she'd be _living_ a nightmare once, that she would grow up to live a life in which everything would be broken around her, if not in a hypothetical way, then by her own hands physically tearing them apart. She is so tired of this.

Taking deep breaths she tries to calm down, telling herself that it is enough of this nonsense, that she is stronger than this. She has obligations, lives to save and problems to fix. If only she could fix herself.

Closing her eyes she counts to ten, then stands up to rearrange her clothes and put her mask on, the one that has thicker skin and no bloodshot eyes, the one that will gather the missing shards around her in an attempt to make these events untraceable.

Crouching down she stares at the floor, estimating the amount of damage she has caused. A pendant from George Harrison, pearls from her godfather that ran around the room, not-so-old perfume bottles in pieces, the perfume flowing out and staining the floor but evaporating at once, a comb she got from Henry for her 154th birthday, thank God it is still in one, the kid was so happy he managed to surprise her with something useful.

And the source of the powdery smell, an old gold plated powder compact from over a century ago with engraved letters on its underside, an H and a J gently embracing each other like _they_ did once. When the world felt exactly as crazy but from it perfection, the gentleman on her left who was so obviously in love with her and whom she loved back, Oxford on her right, a bright future in front, and no reason to look back. She had a wonderful home, a nest, blankets to hide under and four genius friends to redeem the world with, one of which she promised her heart and her life that night he gave this gift to her and they first made love, that night their wonderful little daughter was conceived.

She was unable to throw this souvenir away for over a century, to simply destroy it in a mindless fit of rage. Life couldn't possibly be so ironic. It is a little secret in her life, a constant, something that would make her capable of getting up every morning, something that would bring both wonderful and terrible memories to surface but one that she has cherished all her life. So absurd. She won't let even this be taken from her.

She cradles the pieces in her hands and forcing herself to appear calm, starts marching towards her office, her composure giving nothing away. She sets the pieces down on her table and reaches for the glue. A doctor's hand is magic when it comes to fixing things, she thinks as she tries to put the puzzle together. One by one, the box is almost complete, she almost calms down and smiles to herself, almost. And then she recognizes that there's a piece missing from the lid, the one that would make the compact a whole. Her eyes search throughout the table, hands probing under paperwork and around small statues, but there is nothing, not even dust. She pushes her chair back and descends on her knees, gently running her palms over the floor, and she finds nothingness as well. She bites on her lower lips as a curse is about to slip from beneath them, tears start to gather around her eyes and her hands are ready to claw into the carpet for the pain.

And she would, if it wasn't for the familiar voice above that makes her head tilt upwards in seek of the speaker.

'Helen?' Asks the bald man with a comforting voice, and he stretches his palms towards her. She clears her throat silently, and then rises to her feet, only to feel her knees about to give way again. Looking at his hand her eyes widen in astonishment.

'I believe these belong together.' He says, a gentle smile forming on his lips, and she is unable to look away. She feels relief pull the pieces of her soul back together, and she reaches for the piece that's offered, softly savoring it between her fingers, trying to tell if it is even real or not. But the porcelain is cold, its broken side is harsh against her skin and she is pretty sure she could cut herself with the margin. It is definitely real, definitely between her fingers, and ready to be a piece of the whole once again.

'Yes.' She says, tasting the word between her lips 'They do.' And as she fits it into its place, a thankful smile appears on her features and she looks back at the man who once almost chased her into insanity, so he might now save her from it.

Maybe broken things can be fixed, after all.


End file.
